The Dress
by Quellesirel Peredhil
Summary: Fic written for the Prince of Tennis smut meme on LJ. Tango pair fic, in which Sanada wears a dress and Atobe likes it.


Sanada stared drolly at his reflection. Perhaps if he wished death upon the size sixteen, glittering and offensive frock long enough, he would not be standing in the dressing room of a snooty store while Atobe Keigo stood outside, flipping through his iPhone and checking his facebook feed. The capped boy snorted as the heir rejoiced his thousandth friend; it wouldn't surprise him if Atobe set up his own fanclub page.

"Why am I doing this again?" Sanada voiced monotonously. What had he done in a past life to merit any dress wearing?

The clicking didn't even halt, nor did the leather shoes that Sanada could spot crossed under the door move an inch. "Just change, Sanada," Atobe scoffed. "Unless you want to admit defeat?" a slow smirk formed on his pristine features.

_"Want to?" Atobe challenged, in the shower room after their Senbatsu win._

"Want to what?" Sanada stood stiff and blinked. The soap suds from his shampoo leaked into his eyes; Sanada scowled and wished that it was tear free.

Atobe strode across the shower to put a hand on Sanada's chest. "Tango, of course," he quirked his head pompously, "You know how, don't you?"

"Yes," Sanada narrowed his eyes, causing more soap to leak into the tear ducts, "But not here."

"Well of course not here," Atobe looked at Sanada as though he were a prize idiot, which he was, to not have rinsed the soap suds off his head yet. Then again, perhaps he needed to let it sit a bit longer, to take care of all the toxic waste from the cap. "Next weekend," he declared, "In the ballroom of my mansion."

Sanada frowned, and was silent for a long time. "We're both guys," he said finally, as they were exiting the shower. Removing the bitty, yellow towel from the bench, he wrapped it securely about his waist and put his cap on. He didn't really see how two guys could dance the tango together; who would lead?

Standing naked in the middle of the locker room, Atobe toweled off his hair and regarded Sanada incredulously, "That's your only qualm?" Chuckling, he dried his hands and plugged in a complicated looking hair dryer. The heir had to look impeccable as he left the stadium, of course. "Don't worry, Sanada," the wheels in Atobe's head were turning, "Ore-sama will take the most difficult part upon himself."

It was a blow to Sanada's pride to admit that he watched Atobe's ass flex as he walked over to the mirror. It was a further blow that Atobe had, in the mirror, witnessed him staring. "That won't be necessary," Sanada crossed his arms. How dare Atobe insult him in such a way, Sanada knew he was a perfectly adequate dancer. Before that comment, he hadn't been inclined to agree to the date at all, but the seed of competition had already been planted. "I'll take on the more difficult role," and show Atobe up while he was at it.

"Good," Atobe remarked, looking at Sanada by way of the mirror. Shutting off the hairdryer, he stuffed it in his club bag. As he passed Sanada he remarked, "Then you can wear the dress."

Atobe Keigo grabbed his clothes and walked into the changing stall, strides victorious. Sanada stood in the clubroom with his mouth agape. The yellow towel decided it was an opportune moment to flutter to the ground.

Those Hyoutei players were sneaky, Sanada frowned as he recollected.

Still struggling against his fate, Sanada complained, "Is the lead not the hardest part?" The dress taunted him with its sparkly spangles. On a woman, it would likely be knee length; Sanada knew that on him, it would be inappropriately short. That did not even bring the heels into the picture. Sanada hardly dared to even cast his gaze upon those monstrosities. The employees outside were tittering, an occasional giggle audible over the stall about the strange, hulking boy who brought a sequined dress and five inch heels into the changing rooms. Sanada twitched.

"Don't be naïve, Sanada," Atobe replied, his words dripping with smugness. "The woman has to dance the same part as the man, except backwards and in heels," the heir scowled at his iPhone. Oshitari had the _gall_ to poke him on facebook. Irately, he jabbed the poke back button; Atobe Keigo did not lose poking wars. "That would be more difficult, correct?"

"Hn," Sanada grunted. As much as he knew this was a ploy, he could not argue his way out of it. Part of him wished that he was good at arguing; a bigger part of him wished that he wasn't so competitive so he could just walk away from all this shit. If he wouldn't make more of an idiot of himself by doing so, Sanada would rip off the dressing room door and pound Atobe's head with it. Instead, he removed the stupid dress from the hanger and tried to see about getting it on over his clothes.

If a sequin touched his body he would have to commit seppuku.

Atobe sighed. "Sanada, if you're just going to be a brute about it, hurry up and change," he sniffed exasperatedly and poked Oshitari again the second he received a response. "Ore-sama has better things to do than wait on a woman."

Growling, Sanada tossed the piece of fabric he just struggled to unzip to the floor in a huff. It clattered on the tile and Sanada's footstomps to the door could probably be heard by the entire shop. "Call me a woman again and I will shove a heel up your ass," he threatened the change room door. He knew if he opened the door he would have a homicide on his hands.

Smirking as there was no reply from Oshitari, Atobe examined his fingernails and commented, "Ore-sama didn't know you were so keen on shoving things up his ass. Then again, you seem to spend an good amount of time staring at it."

Sanada looked at the door-hinge. He could probably rip that off easily. A life in prison looked good right about now.

"Just put on the damn dress, Sanada," Atobe sidled up to the door, eying the crack. The Rikkai-dai vice captain had yet to even remove his clothes; Atobe pouted. "Or are you so inept that Ore-sama has to dress you?"

Sanada snarled and fought the urge to kick a wall. Then again, he might as well, and make Atobe pay for the damages. Normally, Sanada frowned upon such immature behavior, but he considered himself fully justified as he put a hole in the white plaster by the mirror.

_Yes, get angry,_ Atobe grinned, his pants getting tighter. Something about pissing people off, Sanada in particular, aroused him. He shot the employees standing by a look that clearly read _get out of my sight._ Since they all knew who he was, they did, but not before giggling more than anyone really should. "Would you like Ore-sama to come in and lend a hand?" he bit his lower lip, as not to cackle.

Clenching his fist, Sanada took a deep breath. "I can dress myself, Atobe," he seethed, projecting at practically a hiss. Violently, he removed his shoes and placed them neatly by the small bench in the change room. His buttons were the next victims; his thick fingers worked them quickly through the holes as he shrugged off his Rikkai-dai uniform shirt. The capped boy was painfully aware of the eyes on him, and refused to be affected by his spectator. He'd put on that fucking dress without incident.

The Hyoutei Captain pursed his lips. Sanada took his time getting dressed, to Atobe's upmost frustration. Then again, Sanada took his time with just about everything. The heir shut his eyes and pictured just how unwoman-like Sanada would appear in that dress. His large, muscled thighs would strain against the shimmering beads of the dress. From those high heels, beefy, tennis-player calves would emerge. Where there would normally be delicacy around the shoulders, there would be Sanada's strong, rippling back and broad build. Sanada Genichirou would look absolutely nothing like a woman. Atobe unbuttoned his pants and thrust a hand into his lavender boxer briefs. He had been thinking about Tezuka when he bought them, thinking about Tezuka and how Atobe defeated him before Sanada did. Despite beating Tezuka in the game physically, and beating Sanada to the game itself, Atobe was unsatisfied. There was still something in him that snarled and chomped, eating away at his cage. Apparently, hurting Tezuka's arm had not been enough for that beast. Somehow, he doubted jacking off to Sanada in a dress would either, but it would assuage its demands for the time being.

Undoing his belt, Sanada refused to think about whatever Atobe might be doing that was making him breath so deeply. He added the leather item to the pile of clothing that contained his shirt and school tie, stacked atop his shoes. Knowing that Atobe was watching his every move did something to him, as much as he wanted to deny it, the fact that the Hyoutei Diva had his eyes on him changed the way he pulled down his pants. It made the motion faster than it ought to, as not to appear teasing; Sanada Genichirou did not tease. The additional gaze made him increasingly spartan. He tried to regard the dress as though it were just something he would normally wear, and failed. Swallowing his pride, he stood before the dress in his plain, white, y-fronts (with his name stitched into the elastic 'just in case') and unzipped the sequined disaster.

Sanada's ass was as flat as they got, or at least, that was what Atobe observed. The sequins would flow over it as though it didn't even exist. Likely, the spaghetti straps would strain over his shoulders and the dress would be tight about his back before it reached the lower part of his V shape and then finally clung to his muscled thighs. Atobe chewed his grinning lower lip as he fisted his arousal; it would be all legs from there.

Holding up the dress, Sanada did his best to pull it over his head and hat, to no avail. The smallest part of the cloth refused to fit over his shoulders. Untangling himself from the frock, he put it on the ground and stepped into the small circle of floor among the bunched material and pulled the dress up – success. Sanada pulled his arms through the straps and faced decidedly away from the mirror. He had not the smallest desire to see what he looked like in a dress. Adjusting the cap on his head, he eyed the heels with upmost trepidation.

Of one thing, Atobe was absolutely sure; his lips would have teeth marks on it all over the place. He could taste the blood in his own mouth, a coppery taste to match the salty, slickness of his cock. Wrinkling his nose at the disgusting state of his own hands stained with pre-cum, he grabbed a monogrammed handkerchief from his back pocket. Clothing his guilt helped, and so did the fact that the cloth felt so much rougher and grainer than his own hand. Turning his eyes back to the crack of the change room door, Atobe saw that Sanada had _actually, finally_ put the dress on. It was the very best sort of offensively horrible that Atobe had ever seen. The kind that made him want to jerk off harder, despite himself, looking at Sanada's flat ass, broad back and thick calves instead of the type of body that normally would fill out that dress.

Sanada did not want to venture into the realm of What Yukimura Would Think. That path led down to bad things, not being able to look his Captain in the eye for one. Idly, he wondered whether or not he'd rather run five hundred laps or put on the shoes that he was in the process of attempting to melt with a laser glare. Though the laps were winning out on that one, Sanada stepped into the ridiculous shoes and hiked a foot up on the bench to buckle one of them, and then the other. Turning to face the door, he caught the gaze of Atobe…who appeared to be…

Sanada colored a shade of red to match the sparkly, sequined dress and tripped in his heels.

Atobe creamed his monogrammed handkerchief with a final groan.  
Unperturbed, Atobe stuffed himself back in his pants. "Next weekend, at eight, in my ballroom," he said cooly, despite the heat of his gaze. "Be there, and bring the dress."

Sanada wondered if it was possible for the ground to swallow him whole.


End file.
